Buried Secrets
by lazuli-rain
Summary: Mort Rainey has successfully buried all memories of Ted and Amy... but a new love interest may dig up his violent past. Has finally been revived and finished. Plz R&R!
1. Introduction

Hey, this is my first story on FanFiction, so please R&R and go easy on me!  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Secret Window or any of the characters in this story except Marah.  
  
Mort Rainey was on a roll.  
  
His fingers danced furiously over the keyboard, clacking noisily as lines upon lines of text unfurled on the screen. He didn't know where he was getting all these new, innovative storylines from, but these last few months he'd felt as if he was drawing from a entirely untapped well of horrific experiences that he couldn't even remember very well. Ever since his wife and that boyfriend of hers, Ted, the hick from Shooter's Bay, disappeared. Dropped all contact, just like that. They probably took the money she got from the divorce and went to live in Majorca, he thought. And people thought he had killed them—how ridiculous was that, when they were almost certainly living off of his money right now. But he stayed calm about it; his indignation at being falsely accused was surprisingly mellow. Just one of those things. Let the little people run.  
  
The strangest thing was... he didn't remember ever signing those divorce papers. Had Amy forged his signature? Unlikely. Probably she just wore him down until he was near insane, and he's signed just to get her out of his face. He had been very close to insane immediately after she disappeared—but he didn't like thinking about that too much. Hidden memories danced under the surface of his consciousness, but trying to get at them was like staring into a deep well. Nothing was clear; probably nothing ever would be. They were probably just a lot of bitter scenes from the divorce anyway.  
  
He finished the bloody killing of the protagonist's wife's boyfriend. He stopped, feeling a little sick but mostly exhilarated. He took up an ear of corn and bit into it voraciously, chewed over the lines as he ate.  
  
"Pretty good," he finally said aloud to himself. "Pretty damn good. I'll write the ending later."  
  
He quickly ate the rest of the corn—it was the main staple of his diet nowadays. He wasn't sure when it had begun, but it was more than a predilection, it was a need. Not just any corn, either. It had to be grown in his very own miniature field. But he didn't think much about that either. So he liked corn. People could deal.  
  
He got up from his desk and stretched, cricking his neck and shaking out his legs. He worked his jaw, ran his hands through his dark, longish hair, streaked with blond. He needed to go shopping for a few things. He'd have to drive all the way into the city for it, since these poor townspeople were still so terrified of him for killing Ted and Amy. 


	2. Meeting

He grabbed his keys from the hook on the wall and walked out to his car. Someone was walking by, so he turned to give them a big smile. He took a kind of vicious pleasure in watching the people stop dead in their tracks and then fix their gazes straight ahead of them, walking very fast away from him like overgrown toy soldiers. He wasn't sure why. It should make him feel angry, or indignant, or at least sad and misunderstood. But it didn't. He was just... detached. Confident. Only in the dead of night, alone in that creaky house, did he ever feel unstable. Whenever he tried to think back, about Ted and Amy and why, exactly, he had suddenly planted a cornfield in his backyard...  
  
He was therefore very surprised when the person walking by stopped and smiled back. It was a young woman, in her early twenties probably. She had medium skin and long, shiny black hair, and her smile seemed to light up her dark eyes. Now, she would look good in the back room of the mansion as the murderer suddenly appears behind her, blocking the entrance, thought Mort, with a somewhat sinister grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he softened. No—she looks good now, he realized. Very good.  
  
Not only did she not avert her eyes and hasten away, but she turned up his front walk. It had been a long time since a woman came up that path. When was the last time? When Amy... when Amy...  
  
"I'm new in town," the young woman was saying pleasantly and a little apologetically, "could you tell me where"—she checked a slip of paper—"9121 Chestnut Street is?"  
  
Mort was a little taken aback by this. He hadn't had a conversation, come to think of it, with anyone for a long time, aside from people whose jobs involved talking to him, like cashiers and bank tellers and his orthodontist. Of course he knew where 9121 Chestnut was. It was quite a ways in the opposite direction from where she had been walking. It was on the edge of town, almost inside the city.  
  
"I, ah..." he said, his syllables taking on that lazy quality that meant he was uncertain. Not nervous exactly; his confidence was unshaken, but he was surprised. He blinked at her for a second; she was still there, looking back at him slightly quizzically as she waited for a response. She noticed that his eyes were almost as dark as her own behind his glasses, that they held depths that she couldn't even hope to guess, that they were not happy. She noticed his rich, bronzed skin and his high cheekbones, his well-defined jaw. She suddenly felt that she wanted to trace that line, wanted to feel his skin. She repressed the urge instantly—he was just beginning to speak again, and he wasn't giving her directions.  
  
"Where are you from?"  
  
She hardened a little. She hated when people asked her about her nationality before anything else. As if that's the only thing they saw.  
  
"My mother's Korean. My father's half-Korean, half-white."  
  
He blinked. "I meant, where did you move here from."  
  
"Oh." She felt a little stupid for getting defensive. "I'm sorry... Baltimore."  
  
He nodded, smiling slightly. "And what's your name?"  
  
"Marah. Yours?"  
  
"Mort Rainey." He waited for her reaction. If she'd been here more than a few hours, she would know his reputation, even if she didn't know his face. Maybe she'd run away now.  
  
Sure enough, recognition dawned in those dark liquid eyes. But she didn't register suspicion or start edging away. Her eyes lit up.  
  
"I thought I recognized your face from somewhere! I saw it on the jacket flap of your last novel. It was great, by the way. I've read a lot of your work. I really liked that last story, the one you re-published after revision. Secret Window."  
  
Mort was genuinely surprised by this response, but he found himself pleased despite himself. His smile broadened. "Oh, really? That's—that's great, I'm glad you liked it."  
  
"You know, I've always wanted to ask you why you changed it. I mean, it's a much better ending, but where did you get the inspiration?"  
  
His whole train of thought ground to a halt. His smile disappeared. "Oh, it was...a lot of things that had been going on, my... divorce and..." He stopped. He had really never thought about it at all. The re-publication had been a huge success, revenue had started pouring in like never before, book deals, interview requests, even fan mail. He'd declined them all, saying he preferred working the way he always had—freelance, with only a literary agent to handle his legal disputes. Copyrights and the like. But he'd never thought once about it since.  
  
Marah noticed his discomfort, but didn't know how to change the subject. "Oh, I'm sorry," she murmured. He nodded to acknowledge her but said nothing. Silence fell between them and dragged on for a few seconds, before she remembered why she was there in the first place.  
  
"So, um...Chestnut Street?" she asked finally.  
  
"Oh! Yeah, that's," he grinned, "about half an hour's walk, that way." He pointed back the way she came.  
  
Marah groaned and ran her fingers through her hair, laughing a little at herself. "Thanks," she said resignedly. She smiled up at him. "It was really great to meet you."  
  
"You know," began Mort, feeling that slightly sinister confidence returning, "I'm heading into the city to do my shopping. It's right on my way—I could drop you off there in five minutes."  
  
She seemed to consider him, then his car, then him again. Finally she looked up at him. He found himself wanting very much for her to say yes.  
  
"Well thanks, that'd be great." 


	3. Tearing Down Walls

Mort and Marah drove for a few minutes in silence. Finally Marah spoke.  
  
"So why do you shop all the way in the city? There's a pretty good grocer just a few blocks down from your house, I thought."  
  
He didn't want to tell her it was because the townspeople thought he was a murderer. He simply shrugged. "Um...I'm not going grocery shopping," he lied. "I have to, uh, pick up some printer cartridges!" He was speaking unnecessarily loudly. He worked his jaw almost savagely.  
  
"Oh," was all she said, a little uncertain.  
  
He reverted to a normal volume. "Why are you heading over to 9121 Chestnut?"  
  
She rolled her eyes and rubbed her temple. "I'm a new teacher for the first grade at the elementary school. I'm supposed to be meeting all my new students. You have a real close-knit community in this town."  
  
He didn't know what to say. He was most definitely not in that community. She mistook his silence for being offended and hurried to appease him.  
  
"I'm sure it's important for the children to feel as if they know their teachers, it's only," she laughed, "I've gotten lost so often, I'm getting a little impatient with the whole business." She glanced over to see if he was still offended.  
  
He was looking back at her, a little amused. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to seem disapproving. I wasn't thinking of that at all." She looked questioning and genuinely interested, so he went on. "You'll find it out within the day, probably," his eyes were narrowed in sarcasm at some imaginary gossip, "so I might as well tell you. And we're here," he added, pulling over and putting the car in park in front of her destination, "so you can get out whenever you want to during my explanation."  
  
She was surprised and beginning to be a little afraid, despite herself. Probably horror writers have a tendency to be overdramatic, that's all, she thought. But she kept one hand on the door handle anyway.  
  
"People think..." he trailed off. Looking at her sitting in his car, he felt like he was coming alive and seeing things for the first time in months, maybe even longer. His confidence was ebbing away, but instead of the fear and shooting memories that usually came with that sensation, he only felt nervous. He didn't want this...beautiful...young woman to think he was a murderer and walk away like the others. He didn't want to go back to writing horror stories every waking hour, never speaking to another human being.  
  
He cocked his head and looked at her sideways. "They believe that I'm a murderer. That I killed my ex-wife and her boyfriend. Three or four months ago."  
  
Finally, she was reacting as expected; her eyes widened with shock and, he thought, fear and loathing. She took in her breath sharply, then turned away and opened the door. The car began beeping rhythmically to indicate the door wasn't closed. Mort stared at her back, listening only to each beep, reminding her that she hadn't gone yet, hadn't stepped out of his car and out of his life forever yet...  
  
Then the car door slammed and the beeping stopped abruptly. It took him a moment to realize that she was still in the car, staring at him.  
  
"But, that's... not true," she said slowly. "Correct?"  
  
He whipped his head around to look at her. Of course not, was on the tip of his tongue. They just picked up and left. It had nothing to do with me. But the words wouldn't come. He couldn't say anything, and that scared him to the core.  
  
"I... I don't think it's true, no," he said at last. He managed a faint smile.  
  
She looked at him a long time, simply because she was unable to tear her eyes away from his. His gaze held hers, captivated her. There was so much dancing there beneath the surface. But a hidden murder? She didn't see it. Even though she'd only met this man, she trusted him. Warmth emanated from him, from his skin, from his gaze, from his smile, even now.  
  
"I don't think so, either," she whispered.  
  
They heard a door open and shut behind them, and a little boy ran out with his mother, smiling.  
  
"Ms. Caraway?" said the mother, coming to the side of his car. Marah immediately turned a sunny, if a little forced, smile on the pair of them and opened her door, but already the woman's smile had crashed to the ground. She was staring at Mort like he was a ghost, ushering the little boy back behind her with one hand. She looked at Marah suspiciously, apparently trying to decide whether she was in cahoots with the murderer, or whether she should be pitied for having been forced into his car.  
  
"Oh, Mr. Rainey was kind enough to give me a ride here, Mrs. Butters, I'd gotten completely turned around and was on completely the wrong side of town," Marah began to explain.  
  
Mrs. Butters nodded sharply at Mort, who gave her his patented "little people" smile, then began to usher Marah and the boy quickly back along her front walk and into the house, leaving Mort alone in his car.  
  
He watched the three of them walk up the garden pathway, Mrs. Butters casting occasional glances over her shoulder as if to ward him off, Marah looking back too, with a far softer expression. The boy seemed a little frightened, but was quickly forgetting the affair as he turned wondering eyes on his future teacher. All three of them disappeared through the sun- faded green door and into the house.  
  
Mort should have felt the way he always did when he got this reaction from the townspeople: a sinister, detached, condescending amusement. But he saw Marah look back at him one last time before she disappeared from view, and he didn't feel that way at all. It was like he'd had a wall built up between him and the rest of the town, that allowed him to cope with the solitude, the suspicion, the fear—and she'd come and she'd torn that wall down. He cared, cared very much, what she thought of him. He wanted her to trust him...but how could she?  
  
The walls of his world were in shambles. He didn't even trust himself anymore. 


	4. Come Again

Wow... Thanks so much to everyone who's already reviewed this! Like I said, this is the first story I've written, so I was pretty nervous. Thanks for the encouragement. ( Sorry the updates are coming kinda slow... schoolwork (and going to see Secret Window a second time :-P) have been making my schedule pretty full.  
  
It took several days of almost constant sleep for Mort to feel a little reconstructed, and at the end of them she reappeared and ruined it all over again.  
  
He was lying on his new couch in his new tan bathrobe, dozing as he considered whether it would be best for his protagonist to kill his wife with a crowbar, or a little more romantically. Maybe he'd say he wanted to talk things over, bring her up on a cliff overlooking a wild, rocky beach, and then shove her over the edge to drown in blue oblivion. Suddenly there was a rap on his door; he bolted upright.  
  
Fear rushed through him; he couldn't explain why. He hated the sound of knocking. He simply couldn't bear it. It sent thrills of terror up his spine and made the dark memories begin swirling under his consciousness again—never enough for him to see them and understand them, but enough to fill him with a cold, icy feeling just short of panic. After Amy and Ted had disappeared, a lot of things around the house had started making him feel that way. The old couch, for example, which he'd replaced with a much more modern, sophisticated, dark brown leather sofa. And the old ratty blue-and-black bathrobe. And that telephone, such a weird shade of green. He'd thrown them all out; he just couldn't stand to look at them anymore. He supposed he didn't want to think about Amy was all. The traitor.  
  
He hurried to the door and yanked it open before whoever it was could knock again. And there stood Marah.  
  
He blinked a little stupidly at her, trying to clear the last vestiges of sleep—and panic—from his mind. She looked uncertain, as if she wasn't sure whether she had a right to be there.  
  
"Hi," she said, smiling slightly. She was holding a thin stack of light blue papers; she gave him one. "The school's having a fundraiser, and I'm supposed to hand out the fliers."  
  
He took it but didn't look at it, and gave a short bark of a laugh. "I really don't think my presence is ...desired," he said. "I make people nervous," he added with a touch of sarcasm.  
  
She didn't try to contradict him or convince him otherwise. "Yeah," was all she said, softly, but she didn't turn to leave, and didn't take her eyes from his. They were the darkest eyes he had ever seen. The last time he'd seen her, he'd been too surprised that he was actually interacting with another person to take in her appearance much, past the fact that she was attractive. But he decided now: she was beautiful. His author brain began to mold words around her features, as carefully and delicately as if he were actually touching her. Skin as rich and smooth as apple butter... ears with curves like seashells... lips full and soft like sun-kissed berries... eyes that were dark mysteries, to be solved only under silver moonlight by the passion of a lover.  
  
When the description of her lips hit him, flowing as naturally as the others, he stopped abruptly. No way was he going to get involved with this... this Marah. Safer that way. Better for all involved. But she wouldn't leave.  
  
"Is there something else I can do for you?" he found himself saying, rather brusquely.  
  
She looked as if she'd been shaken out of her own reverie. "Well, actually..." she tucked a strand of her midnight black hair behind her ears and looked away, then met his eyes again, "the real reason I came was, I didn't feel quite right about how we parted last time and I..." she trailed off. She had had an idea of what to say beforehand, had practiced it as she walked down his street, as she turned up his path. It was gone.  
  
He stood, considering her. Finally, he smiled for the first time, a small smile, but a genuine one. He opened the door a little wider and stepped back, allowing room for her to pass through.  
  
"Would you like to come in?"  
  
"I..." she began, then stopped. "Yes." And she stepped inside. 


	5. A Kiss

"So," Mort said, as they both stood somewhat awkwardly just inside the door. It had been a long time since he'd had a guest. Not counting the sheriff, who dropped by periodically to tell him not to shop at the local grocery store, not to go to the local post office, not to smile at people, not to walk the streets...  
  
"So, can I get you something to drink?"  
  
"I'm fine," Marah said immediately. She chewed on the inside of her cheek as her eyes wandered around the room. She took in the exercise equipment, the modern furniture, the shelves full of books, and then... the corn. A plate bearing three ears of corn and a stick of butter on the coffee table. A basket of unshucked corn just inside the door. An array of pots on the stove, and she could guess as to their contents.  
  
Mort felt disappointment make his stomach sink. So she wasn't different after all. She was going to stand there, gape at the corn, write him off as a psycho, look at him like a frightened rabbit, and leave. He didn't know why this time it made him feel so disappointed, so frustrated, so hopeless. He was never disappointed by people; he simply didn't care what they thought. The disappointment made him feel vulnerable, and he didn't like it.  
  
Suddenly Marah looked up at him, but she didn't look frightened. A little nervous, perhaps, but not like she thought he was a monster. She walked past him to sit at one end of the leather couch. She was wearing a red-and- yellow knit sweater that flared slightly below the elbows. The neck was cute wide, showing off flawlessly smooth skin and delicate collarbones. She sat there with one leg folded underneath her, the dark brown of the couch perfectly accenting her sweater and her skin. She smiled at him again. A smile like... Mort began. He stopped himself. Her smile was gorgeous, and if he thought about it too long he'd find himself in the midst of full-blown desire. And that wouldn't do.  
  
He ran a hand through his blonde-streaked hair, scratched the back of his neck. After some consideration, he went and sat down too, at the other end of the couch.  
  
"I don't think you killed them," she said suddenly.  
  
The effect this simple sentence had on him was incredible. First he felt shock at her having gotten to the point so directly; then relief, and a kind of joy he hadn't felt for a long time. Then... then he felt regret. He didn't know why. And he felt something dark stirring inside him. He repressed it, and smiled—and soon he found himself positively grinning at her.  
  
"Thank you," was all he said. He felt compelled to say more. "You're the only person in this town who thinks that...but... it means a lot to me."  
  
There was a long pause, but not the awkward kind they'd been having before. They looked into each others' eyes and they smiled at each other, and without either of them moving, they were somehow sitting together in the center of the couch, knees almost touching.  
  
"Well, now we've established I'm not a psychotic killer, let's talk about you," Mort said finally. "Why'd you move here?"  
  
A shadow immediately passed over Marah's face, her bright eyes becoming overcast. He could see pain there in the split second before she looked away.  
  
"Ask me another question," she said softly.  
  
"Ah..." he cast about desperately, too surprised to think fast. "Umm...you like teaching?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," she answered readily, trying to smile again, "yeah, I love kids. The children in this town are... wonderful, by the way, I've been meeting all of them, and they're so happy, and secure, and protected."  
  
I wouldn't know, their parents hide them when I appear, was the first response that came into Mort's head, but for some reason he didn't feel like saying it. His taste for bitter irony and sinister sarcasm was gone for the moment.  
  
"I'm sure you're great with them," was all he said.  
  
She laughed. "They like me all right, I suppose. Children are always easier to win over than parents."  
  
"You've been having problems with the parents?"  
  
"Oh, not really. Well, except for Mrs. Butters—after I drove up with you. I don't think I've got much chance of her liking me anymore."  
  
Mort looked to see if she resented, or at least regretted, that she'd gone with him, but her dark eyes were twinkling, laughing at the folly of the overprotective mom. He laughed with her, and for the first time took neither offense nor sinister pleasure in Mrs. Butters' fear of him. For the first time, he simply laughed it away, feeling it roll off him harmlessly.  
  
Marah got up. "I should go finish delivering these things."  
  
He got up also. "Thanks for dropping by." He meant it more sincerely than he'd ever meant anything in his life.  
  
They walked to the door, and after she opened it, she turned to smile at him one last time. Suddenly something possessed him; he had to touch her, just to make sure that she was real, that she had actually been there and said the things he thought she'd said. He put a hand behind her neck, his thumb tracing the curve of her ear, and he drew her face up to him, bending down until their lips were only millimeters apart. Then he stopped, not kissing her until she made a move to accept his touch.  
  
She was surprised and at first alarmed, but only for a second. Then she brought her arms up and locked them around his neck, raising herself up on tip-toes slightly until their lips met, barely brushing at first, then finding each other more surely and remaining locked in blissful warmth. She traced his jawline, his cheek, every line and curve and angle burning itself into her memory.  
  
As suddenly as it began, the kiss was over, both of them breaking away at the same time. With quickened pulses they stared at each other, both shocked, wondering if what had just passed had been real. Then Marah smiled, like dawn breaking over her face, and Mort found himself smiling too. Then she turned and was gone.  
  
She was real, Mort fairly sang to himself, still grinning. He could still feel her warmth on his lips. 


	6. Dreams and Memories

She came back a few days later, and for the first time in months the knock at the door didn't cause him to panic, or even shudder. Instead, he jumped up and answered it with excited anticipation, and he was not disappointed; she was there, the sun behind her framing her face and lighting her dark hair.  
  
She had come, presumably, to ask him if he was interested in taking part in a pie bake being held up at the school. He looked at her strangely, but she looked steadily back up at him, a laugh playing behind her eyes, until he understood that that wasn't the reason she had come at all. He invited her in, and she came in more readily this time, not blinking an eye at the baskets of corn he had hauled in that morning, nestling into the corner of his couch like it was already her special place. Which, Mort realized, it was.  
  
He shut the door and joined her on the couch, sitting right next to her instead of at the opposite corner. With a second's hesitation he put his arm around her and stroked her shoulder. She rested her head against him and took his other hand in her own warm ones. Mort had never been so happy, even before the divorce...  
  
And yet, he thought with frustration, all his thoughts kept leading back to that event. Divorce. D-I-V-O-R... he heard it being spelled out in his head and that cold panic took hold in his abdomen again. The voice he was hearing wasn't his own thought...it was a voice from the past, with a sharp southern accent, anger in its tone. Who was it?... what was it? He took in his breath sharply, like he was hurt. Marah raised her head and looked at him, concerned.  
  
"Something wrong?"  
  
He smiled slightly, but he knew there was no mirth in his expression. "No." He shook his head as if to clear it of a bad dream and looked into her eyes, and his tense expression softened. "No," he repeated, his voice a little more relaxed.  
  
"How have you been?" she asked softly.  
  
"All right."  
  
"Do you get lonely up here, ever?"  
  
I didn't, Mort wanted to say. Until you came along, and now... "Sometimes." He looked down at her. "Where are you staying?"  
  
"I'm renting the third floor from Mrs. Olmann."  
  
"Oh."  
  
There was a short lull in the conversation, and then Marah looked up at him suddenly, sitting up and dropping his hand. She turned to face him full- on, so that his arm slipped from around her shoulders.  
  
"Mort, I like you a lot, but..." she trailed off and tucked her hair behind her ear. Oh, here it comes, thought Mort. But you're a murderer, so gotta go, see you around... "I haven't had great experiences with love before, and I'm afraid of... of being hurt again," she finished lamely. Wow, how generic and stupid did that sound, she thought.  
  
Mort, however, was actually feeling rather pleased that this reservation she was feeling hadn't been all about him. He looked at her searchingly.  
  
"Is that why you left? Why you came to town?"  
  
She turned away from him again, so he could only see her profile. She looked down at her hands. "Yes," she whispered. "I was with someone, and he was very, very..." she swallowed, "protective, but when I tried to tell him I was leaving, he got violent, and so I had to run..." She looked at him and managed a small smile in response to his shock. "He won't find me here. I don't know how I even remembered this place, my friend had had me over to her house here once, during Christmas break, while we were both in college. And when I was trying to think of a place to go..."  
  
More scenes were running through her head than she was telling him. The darkness, her blood pounding in her ears, him yelling, the tables, the chairs being overturned, something crashing behind her, the walls, the walls... and then the hands...  
  
He put his arm around her again, guiding her head back onto his shoulder. He felt how tense her body was, how her breathing was labored. He sensed that she was blinking back tears.  
  
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "That should never have happened." A long silence grew between them, and suddenly her heavy breathing became gasping, and he realized in a split second it was sobbing. He wasn't sure what to do, it seemed like forever since another human being had actually turned to him for consolation. But he did his best, taking both her hands, raising her chin so he could look into her eyes.  
  
"Breathe," he told her. "Breathe...take a breath..." Even as he said the words, he heard them being repeated, ghost-like, somewhere in the fog of his memory. He had comforted Amy like this once—no, many times—but once in particular, he had said these exact words to her. At the time he had been angry. Why? Because she was in the process of taking my money and disappearing, he told himself. That had to be it.  
  
Marah was obeying, taking long gasping breaths and trying to wipe the tears from her eyes. "I didn't come here to tell you a sob story," she managed to get out. "I didn't want to come begging for pity." A thought struck her, a frightening one. "I don't want you to feel like you have to be with me now since I've been hurt once and you—"  
  
He shushed her. "I'm glad you came," he whispered simply. "Not just here, today. I mean to this town." She looked up at him. His eyes were sincere. He kissed her, and when he felt the last of her salty tears run down her cheeks, he kissed those too, until she smiled again and kissed him back.  
  
She reveled in their warmth, their contact, feeling, for the first time in almost a year, completely safe. How can people believe this man is a murderer, she thought dreamily. He's the most wonderful, understanding, deep...  
  
Mort, too, rejoiced in being near her, being allowed to touch and kiss her. But he was far from feeling safe; in the back of his head, he kept hearing the lazy-yet-angry Southern voice repeating words from his past—dee- vorce—Amy—you took the coward's way out—you stole this. _Stole_ it. You don't deserve this at all. ***  
  
He had a dream that night. Marah came to him, young and pure and beautiful, clad all in white. He reached out to her and she drew closer, until he could put his arms around her, whisper love-words in her ear. But when he touched her, he felt something cold and clammy instead of her soft warm skin—he looked—his hands were covered in blood. Before his eyes the blood spread up his arms, soaking into his clothing, dripping onto the carpet. He looked at Marah; it was her blood, and she was looking back at him, fear and hurt and anger and betrayal showing in her eyes.  
  
"No," he whispered to her, "I didn't do it. I didn't..."  
  
But as he watched her shake her head, her hair turned lighter, she grew a few inches taller, her skin became fairer. Amy.  
  
"Mort," she whispered, tears in her eyes. Somehow there was a shovel in his hands, and he knew what he was going to do.  
  
"Right's right," he murmured, "and fair's fair..." but it wasn't him saying the words, they were not his words, and it wasn't even his voice. "And something's got to be done." Cornstalks were growing up around them, thick and green. He felt himself raise the shovel against her, and—  
  
He woke up in a cold sweat. What was it? A twisted fantasy of what he wanted to do to Amy? He didn't want that, it was sick, and after all, he wasn't even angry at Amy anymore, he'd let go, finally. He had Marah now, and it felt like he was happy for the first time in his life...  
  
Yet the dream wouldn't go away. Instead of fading as most of his dreams did, it remained fresh in his mind with the clarity and detail of a memory. Even though he tried to avoid thinking of it, more dreams—or were they memories—kept coming to him. Her voice, crying...his voice, twisted into a lazy Southern drawl...the shovel in his hands, cool and heavy...digging. A grave.  
  
He didn't go back to sleep all night. 


	7. A Date

Soon it became a regular event in Mort's life that Marah would drop by and see him around three-thirty every day, as soon as school was over. On Saturday and Sunday she arrived a little earlier, maybe just after lunch. The dream didn't come back, and soon her visit became the highlight of his day, the point around which he structured his other activities. As a new week began and the days wore on, she began staying a little later each time, being a little more reluctant to leave, kissing him a little longer when she said good-bye.  
  
On Friday, at four o'clock, she still hadn't come.  
  
Mort found himself worried, concerned that something might have happened to her, or worse, that she might have decided not to come of her own free will. He wasn't sure which he would rather have be true. The realization that he'd rather have her get hurt than willingly stay away from him made him ashamed, so he resolved to put the whole affair out of his mind. Maybe he would do some work.  
  
He had been staring at a blank screen, pouring the slinky between his hands, for about an hour when the knock came.  
  
He pushed back his chair immediately and went down the stairs two at a time. When he opened the door she was there, smiling as always, but she was unusually beautiful—"even for her," Mort thought. She was wearing a medi-length shiny black skirt and a flowing sheer blouse, embroidered with gold thread. Her midnight black hair shone with the moon's natural highlights. She was wearing a nude-toned but shimmering lip gloss, and dark green eyeshadow gave her a sultry look, even though she looked as sweet as always.  
  
Mort half-smiled, bemused. "You look... nice."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"You look stunning."  
  
"Thank you," she repeated, her eyes sparkling.  
  
"May I inquire as to the occasion?"  
  
She grinned a little mischievously and took both his hands, stepping closer to him. "We're going out. There's this new show at the theater, I thought you might like it. Supposedly it's brilliantly written."  
  
He cupped her face in his hands, the way he always did. His hands fit there naturally now. "You know I never go into town."  
  
"I know. No time like the present."  
  
He found himself a little annoyed at how light she made of it. "Don't feel like you have to save me from being hated and misunderstood by the ignorant townspeople, alright? I can deal with it"  
  
She stepped past him into the room; he shut the door and turned to face her again. "That's not what I'm doing. I know you can take care of yourself."  
  
"Well, what are you doing?" he asked, a little exasperated.  
  
"I'm going to see a show!" She broke out into a smile again, excitement still glowing in her eyes. She did a little spin that made Mort want to cry and laugh and kiss her until he couldn't breathe. "I want to see this show. I thought you might want to see it too. It'll be fun."  
  
He scratched the back of his neck, began walking toward her. "Marah..."  
  
"Don't get that all-understanding look," she said, laughing. Then she stopped and stared deep into his eyes, dead serious. "I'm not naïve enough to think that I can solve all your problems, I know that if people see us together they'll alienate me rather than accept you. But I don't care. That's their problem. I just don't want to have a secret life. I don't want to have to sneak around, I'm sick of hiding. I'm not ashamed of us."  
  
He shook his head slowly. "They won't just alienate you. They might hurt you. They will hurt you."  
  
"If that happens, I'd rather it happen sooner than later. It'll be all the more dangerous when it does come out, if people feel I've been two-timing them all this time."  
  
"You've thought about this."  
  
"If we keep this secret, people will find out eventually anyway, and they'll feel betrayed and threatened that I've been teaching their children while dating a murderer on the side. And they'll come after both of us. If we make it known now, at least they can't say we're liars."  
  
He sighed and took her hand. "You're right. I think I've known that all along." He twirled her once, and grinned again. "Well, at least I get to show you off."  
  
She rolled her eyes teasingly and they walked out the door, feeling invincible.  
  
They got out of the car in front of the theater, and immediately felt eyes on them, darting hisses of whispers behind their backs and even directly in front of them. Marah drew resolutely closer to Mort, taking his hand. He was surprised and, for a split second, even reluctant to take it. Forget all this logic, this reasoning about better sooner than later. He just wanted to protect her as long as possible from this.  
  
But her hand was there, soft and warm, and after a moment he tightened his grip around hers. They were going to face this together. They walked into the theater, sat down. No one sat around them, even though the theater was packed almost to capacity.  
  
"Great view," said Mort sardonically. She sidled up next to him and smiled. He felt the knot of tension in his chest loosen slightly, and put his arm around her.  
  
The show began, and Mort had to admit that, when he could actually bring himself to focus on it, it was indeed very well-written. At some point, Marah turned her face to him and smiled, a half-incredulous smile, as if she were saying, we're actually here, can you believe it? He bent down and kissed her, and immediately they could hear intense whispering sweeping through the rows behind them. It appeared that more people were watching them tonight than the show.  
  
They walked out and pretended to stroll nonchalantly down the street, not averting their gaze from the people who glared angrily at their daring, but not acknowledging them either.  
  
"Ms. Caraway!" Marah turned at the sound of her name; a little girl was racing toward her, with a big smile on her face. She recognized Kasey, a girl in her class. "Hi!" she said breathlessly as she rushed up. "Guess what? I—"  
  
Marah had barely had time to return the smile when a middle-aged woman rushed up, looking angry and frightened, as if Mort and Marah were planning on kidnapping Kasey for some bizarre sacrificial rite.  
  
"Hello, you must be Mr. Anderson," Marah began to say, with little pretense of being happy to see her, but determined to be civil.  
  
"Kasey," he said urgently under his breath, ignoring Mort and Marah completely, "go back to Mommy and Luke. Now."  
  
Kasey looked bewildered. "But I wanted to tell Ms. Ca—"  
  
"Now. You heard me."  
  
Kasey went, looking back over her shoulder curiously. Mort and Marah were left with a very angry Mr. Anderson.  
  
"I don't know what you're trying to pull," he began, advancing on Marah, his eyes sparking dangerously. Mort stepped forward, pulling Marah slightly behind him.  
  
"We didn't call your daughter over, she just wanted to tell her teacher something. If you've got a problem with that, why don't you go and keep an eye on her instead of trying to pick a fight?" Mr. Anderson's eyes widened slightly at the sound of Mort's voice, and he looked him up and down, sizing him up. Marah stepped forward and spoke again.  
  
"Mr. Anderson," she said firmly, "I believe Kasey's waiting for you."  
  
The man breathed heavily through his nose for a few seconds, like a bull about to charge. The he turned abruptly and left Mort and Marah alone, standing there, attracting the sideways stares of everyone on the block.  
  
"Dinner?" said Mort in a low voice, raising his eyebrows.  
  
Marah shook her head. Enough was enough. "Your place?"  
  
"Let's go." They walked to his car, wondering whether they had won or lost. But once they had gotten in and driven in silence for a minute or so, Marah began laughing. First just a sharp exhalation, then a giggle, then real laughter overflowing with mirth. Mort looked at her, concerned.  
  
"What?"  
  
"People can be so...stupid..." she said, between laughs. "Did you see Mr. Anderson's face..."  
  
After a moment Mort joined her, their laughter ringing inside the metal walls of his car. When they pulled into his driveway, they both stopped suddenly and looked at each other, serious again. They didn't know what would happen tomorrow, whether they could even see each other again without it being dangerous. The people would be keeping track of both of them now.  
  
Marah reached up and touched his cheek. "We did it." There was a trace of sadness in her voice, but her eyes shone nevertheless. "We won."  
  
They pretended things were normal the rest of the night, as they ate and talked. When she finally made to leave, he got up too. "I'll take you home." So far she had always gone by herself, since they hadn't wanted people to recognize his car dropping her off. But now...  
  
"Thanks."  
  
He even walked her to her door and kissed her good-night. 


	8. Expulsion

New chapter, finally! Thanks to snoopy dances for the last review, I didn't realize the formatting had gotten so weird in the first couple chapters! They're better now, I think...they're still not indented right but at least you get the idea where the paragraph starts and ends.  
  
***  
  
The next day was Saturday, and Marah walked into her classroom to go over some papers the kids had written. She was surprised by someone already sitting at her desk—a tall, thin man in a suit, with thinning brown hair and dull gray eyes. He rose when she walked in.  
  
"Ms. Caraway?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I'm Philip Gold. I'm the head of the School Board of Education here in Tashmore."  
  
"Nice to meet you," she said, and shook his hand, a little warily.  
  
"Yes, er—it has come to the attention of the Board that you, that you, ah..."  
  
"That I was out with Mort Rainey last night?" Marah asked, annoyed at the man's audacity to actually come and chastise her, not even ashamed of having made such a personal intrusion into her life.  
  
The man looked a little taken aback, but nodded. "Yes, that's it. Well, as you know, the Board is always concerned that the teachers we hire are... competent... to teach our children. And if a circumstance ever arises that makes it apparent that a certain teacher is not, then we feel compelled to intervene. Therefore..."  
  
Marah cut him off, even more annoyed by his failure to cut to the chase. "I hardly think that my personal life is subject to the review of the School Board, Mr. Gold," she said coldly. "I also can't see why, now that you have presumed to review it, you seem to now view me as incompetent."  
  
Mr. Gold looked uncomfortable, but determined. "I don't think you are ignorant of Mr. Rainey's past history here?"  
  
"I am aware that there appears to be a great deal of rumors about his past history, none of which have been proven."  
  
"Ms. Caraway, you have to understand that, although there is inadequate evidence to convict him, there can be little doubt of..."  
  
"I do not understand that, nor do I believe it."  
  
The man sighed. "Well, I suppose that must be left to your discretion, Ms. Caraway, but—"  
  
"Yes," Marah said firmly.  
  
"But," the man continued with a little more emphasis, "the Board has come to a decision on this matter. The parents of the children that attend this school will not allow subject their children to a teacher who is involved in a relationship with a murderer."  
  
"Mort Rainey is _not_," Marah began, but he spoke over her.  
  
"Therefore, you must either promise to end your relationship with Mort Rainey, or we cannot allow you to remain in our employ."  
  
Marah just stood there, dumbfounded. The man sat back down, looking grimly relieved to have delivered his message. When Marah spoke again, she had difficulty controlling her voice. She was spending so much energy holding back her anger that her words could barely squeeze out.  
  
"So you will fire someone based on an intrusion into their personal life, and a few unproven rumors?  
  
The man did seem to find it necessary to respond. He just stood regarding her, looking uncomfortable but also absolutely certain that he was in the right.  
  
Marah gave up. "Well, can I have a few hours to clean out my desk, then," she said tightly.  
  
Mr. Gold looked alarmed. "Ms. Caraway, I advise you to reconsider..."  
  
"No." Marah couldn't trust herself to say anything else.  
  
"Well then." Mr. Gold stood up. "I'm sorry things had to turn out this way. Yes, you have until Monday to clean out your desk."  
  
"Thank you for being so generous."  
  
Ignoring the sarcasm, he walked out and shut the door behind him. Marah picked up the paperweight the school had given her as a gift when she had arrived. She felt it cool and heavy and solid in her hand. Then she hurled it against the door frame, where the man had stood a moment ago, and collapsed into her chair, burying her head in her hands. She didn't know who she was hiding her tears from, but whoever it was, she couldn't bear to let them see her cry.  
  
***  
  
The space of a few hours found her walking home, a cardboard box in her arms containing the few specimens of her career at Tashmore Elementary: an attendance and grade book, a notebook, several pencils, a pack of pens, and a couple of crayon pictures that students had drawn for her. The kind with bright suns and blue skies and green grass. Smiling faces.  
  
She was still partly in shock from what had happened; she had never expected such dire consequences from a relationship with Mort. But another part of her was simply resigned. Maybe, subconsciously, she'd known it was coming all along. All your relationships are doomed, a nasty voice inside her said. And it's because of you, not them...you're the one that leaves destruction in her wake...and then you run away.  
  
When she finally reached home she was crying again, so she didn't see Mrs. Olmann standing in the doorway until she fairly bumped into her.  
  
"Oh, hi, Mrs. Olmann," she said hastily, trying to turn her head and wipe her tears in a way that would not be noticeable. "Hi. Hi."  
  
Mrs. Olmann, usually a kindly old woman, was not smiling, and she did not move to let Marah pass through the doorway.  
  
"What's in the box?" she asked sharply.  
  
"Hm? Oh, just... some of my things..."  
  
"So you decided to choose Mort Rainey over your job?"  
  
Marah stared at her, confused for a second. "How did you know?"  
  
"Oh, I know. News travels fast," said Mrs. Olmann blandly. "And it goes even faster if you're on the committee that made the recommendation to fire you if you didn't give him up." She looked hard at Marah. "I suppose if you're willing to do that much for the man, he must be awful special."  
  
"He is," said Marah quietly.  
  
"Well then," said Mrs. Olmann with a peremptory air, "I guess you'll have to get used to choosing him over a lot of things. Your board here, for intstance. I can't have a murderer's...girl...living in my house." The way she pronounced "girl" made it very clear that she was this close to saying "slut" instead. Marah seethed with rage.  
  
"Mrs. Olmann, I can't see how it's any of your business—"  
  
"For your convenience," said Mrs. Olmann, cutting her off, "I've packed up your things already. They're over there."  
  
For the second time that day, Marah felt helpless, realizing how pointless it was to argue anymore. When she spoke her voice was tight with barely controlled anger again, so she could barely recognize herself. A hot black shape was growing in her chest. "How very kind of you," was all she said, drily. "Mind if I take a look around to make sure nothing's... missing?"  
  
Mrs. Olmann didn't seem to mind the implication that she had stolen something of Marah's. "Oh, go right ahead."  
  
A brief examination left Marah confident that Mrs. Olmann had indeed packed all her things. It wasn't as if she had a lot of valuables anyway. Or any, for that matter. She picked up the two duffel bags stacked by the door, trying to sling them over her shoulders while balancing the cardboard box as well. She refused to look at the older woman as she marched down the steps and started down the white sidewalk.  
  
"You know, it would have ended this way anyway," came Mrs. Olmann's parting shot from behind her. "There's no way you can pay the rent now. Without a job and all."  
  
"Thank you, Mrs. Olmann, for that piece of financial advice!" Marah said very loudly, her throat heaving with the emotion behind the words, fairly tame words compared with what she actually wanted to say. Without turning around, she kept walking away, and not until she was out of sight of the house did she allow herself to relax even slightly. And then realization began to dawn on her as the initial fog of shock and anger cleared:  
  
She had nowhere to go. 


	9. Homecoming

Sorry it's taken sooo long to update!! AP Exams have taken up all my waking hours this week, but I'm finally free again! Reviews should come more frequently from now on, at least a couple times a week. Thanks to all those who have reviewed so far, please keep reviewing because it makes me happy!  
  
A phone call, a thirty-minute wait, and a taxicab later, Marah was at Mort Rainey's door. She looked up at the sky, half-expecting it to start pouring. It would fit the mood so well. Or maybe just a single stormy black cloud, right over her head. That would fit too... but the sky was clear and the air still smelled of late summer, fresh wet leaves, the perfect amount of chill in the breeze.  
  
Mort had been working when the knock came. A new piece; he'd set aside the old one, with the cheating wife and the boyfriend and everyone getting murdered, for the time being. He'd just had this vision and had to start writing. He wasn't sure where the scary part was going to come in, but that was alright, sometimes it started like that, something would hit him...  
  
At the knock he got up and went down the stairs, a little hesitantly. Marah wouldn't come to call this early; she had work. And he wouldn't put it past some of the townspeople to show up after the episode last night, to make it known just what they thought of him for corrupting one of their fine citizens.  
  
But when he opened the door, it was Marah standing there, after all. He broke into an easy smile—the smiles had been coming easier, nowadays, and he felt the familiar set of his teeth, the slight part in his lips, higher on one side than the other. Amy used to love that... before... but he pushed Amy out of his mind at once.  
  
"Hey! You're—" he was about to say, early, but he stopped. "Crying," he finished lamely.  
  
She thought she'd hidden it better than that, so she wiped away her tears quickly, embarrassed, not worrying about being discreet. "No, I'm not," was all she could think of to say.  
  
He raised his eyebrows, looking concerned. "Come on, come in."  
  
She shook her head, no. "I can't. That cab—it's mine. I..." she trailed off.  
  
"Where are you going?" he asked, confused.  
  
There was a few seconds silence; Mort didn't try to fill it, let her try to regain some composure. But his heart was racing. Finally, she took a deep breath and looked at him. "I lost my job, Mort. And the room I'm renting, too, Mrs. Olmann..." she took a breath, "threw me out, basically, is what happened..."  
  
"No," he whispered, barely believing it. "They didn't. They wouldn't dare."  
  
"Yeah," she said, forming her mouth into the position to laugh, but not quite getting there, "yeah, they did."  
  
"I'm so sorry," he said. "It's all my fault. It's completely my fault ..." He made as if to take her in his arms, to hold her, but suddenly he felt he had no right. He just stood there indecisively.  
  
"Don't say that," she said. "I made the choice. It's just me. I couldn't have lasted here anyway, with my... history... I'm sorry. But I'm leaving now, so I hope—"  
  
Whatever she hoped for him, she never got to say it, because he turned sharply around, grabbed her wrists, and pulled her a step closer to him. To hell with rights, to hell with propriety. "No. Look at me. No."  
  
She did look at him, hopelessly. "Mort, I have nowhere to go, no job, no money, and do you really think anyone will hire me now? Give me a place to stay? It's best this way. I don't belong here, in this town..."  
  
"No!" he shouted, frustrated. He saw how she started and he lowered his voice. "No, you do belong here. With me, remember? Remember me?"  
  
She sighed. "What kind of question is that," she murmured.  
  
"Then stay here with me."  
  
"I told you, Mort, I don't have anywhere to—"  
  
"No, I mean, here," he said firmly. "In this house. With me."  
  
She looked sharply up at him, her eyes wide. She looked so innocent that Mort wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a warm hug. She welcomed the embrace, and held onto him for a long time without saying anything. Finally the cab honked. Turning around, they saw the driver gesturing pointedly at his watch.  
  
Mort took Marah by the shoulders, too urgent to be gentle. He turned her to face him. "Listen to me. Go to the cab. Get your stuff. Walk through this door, and walk in for good. Please."  
  
She looked away from him, but did not break his grip on her arms. "I can't ask you to do that for me."  
  
"Does it sound like you're asking?" he cried. "I'm practically begging you!"  
  
"I don't have money to pay rent."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous."  
  
She looked up at him, her brow furrowed, like she was trying to remember something from a long time ago. How can I even be considering this? she thought, I met this man a few weeks ago, when I was obviously on the rebound, this is the most predictable stupid mistake I could make... then she saw him looking at her. She knew him, knew she could trust him. She didn't smile, but her words were the sweetest Mort could have hoped to hear:  
  
"I could use some help getting the bags out of the cab."  
  
They walked down to the street, where the cab driver was practically bursting with impatience. "You coming too?" he asked Mort, mentally figuring the cost of an extra passenger.  
  
"Nah, she's getting out here," Mort answered, barely keeping stupid glee out of his voice. "How much does she owe you?"  
  
The driver sighed. "eleven-fifty."  
  
Mort reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. "Keep the change. I'm in a good mood." And he flashed a big smile at the astonished driver before going to help Marah with the bags.  
  
Marah walked in with the cardboard box and the smaller of the two duffels over her left shoulder. Home, she thought, looking around, testing the word on her tongue before she dared say it out loud. And to her surprise, she found that the word tasted good, tasted right, more than anything.  
  
"Home," said Mort, shutting the door behind her, as if he could read her thoughts. He grinned at her. "You've already had the grand tour, pretty much... well, actually... have you been upstairs?"  
  
She shook her head, and followed him up the narrow wooden steps.  
  
"Over there's my quote-on-quote office" he said, indicating the table with the laptop that was visible from downstairs. "And over here," he pushed open a door, "is the bedroom. Where you'll stay."  
  
"Where will you stay, then?" she asked.  
  
"Couch downstairs." She started to protest, but he silenced her. "I sleep down there about 75 percent of the time anyway. No, I really do."  
  
His words trailed off into silence. They stood there, looking at each other uncertainly, neither quite believing they were in this situation.  
  
Mort strode across to where she was standing, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. 


	10. A Life Together

OK, so more action in this chapter. Also, I realize it's been fluffy so far, but more drama's coming. Thanks again to everyone who's R&R'd!!  
  
They both held out for two nights. Mort didn't want her to think he'd invited her to stay with him just for sex. Marah didn't want to feel like she was granting him favors in return for his kindness. On the third night, she lay awake a long time, imagining his hand on her face, his lips on hers. Finally she gave up. She got up and went to him.  
  
He hadn't been sleeping. At the first creak of the bedspring upstairs, her first barefooted steps he'd heard her, looked up. She looked fragile and delicate and pure, standing at the foot of the stairs, a little uncertain and yet intense. He sat up, and their eyes locked. Unable to tear herself away, Marah walked slowly to his bed, if you could call it walking—she felt like she was floating, being drawn to him on a magnetic current of air. He reached out to her as soon as she was close enough to touch, drawing her down onto the bed with him. She traced his face, his neck, his toned chest and back.  
  
He rolled her over gently so that he was on top. He passed over her entire slim body, kneading her curves and kissing fire into her skin until she became liquid warmth, clinging to him and moaning softly. He brushed back the hair from her face and kissed her lips, long and deep.  
  
Their senses were filled with each other. It was like throwing themselves off a cliff—but knowing that they someone would be there to catch them when they fell. Mort imagined that he could feel their very souls merging into one, someplace in heaven.  
  
After that, their life together settled in quite comfortably, with all the joy and excitement of a new relationship. Very rarely would Marah step back and think, who IS this man I'm living with? What do I know about him? How can I be sure that I'm not just a desperate girl who's been drawn in by... but she couldn't imagine what Mort could be. He couldn't be hiding anything from her; she trusted him too much. And yet...  
  
He acted very strangely sometimes, suddenly, without any reason or anything she could think of setting it off. Once Marah had been sitting curled up beside his desk, reading while he did something at his desk. She'd said something like, "You should have a dog, up here all by yourself. I had a dog growing up, they're great company..."  
  
Mort had stiffened, turned away from her so she couldn't see his face. "I used to have a dog," he said, but his voice was odd, strained, and there was something ominous in its tone. She could tell he didn't want to talk about it.  
  
"Oh," was all she could think of to say. But he didn't speak to her again for the better part of an hour.  
  
Another time she'd gone out to the cornfield by the side of the house, intending to spend some time reflecting, wandering amidst the tall green stalks, the sunlight playing down through the leaves. Within minutes, Mort had found her, and looked at her like he didn't even know who she was.  
  
"Hey," she'd said, and then, "Are you all right?"  
  
He'd been collecting a few ears of corn for lunch. He'd slowly put it down on the ground, and advanced toward her until he was only a few inches from her face, staring into her eyes like he was trying to draw out a secret she didn't know she had.  
  
"Why are you in here?"  
  
"I just wanted to come out here and think." She'd tried to kiss him, but he'd stopped her, with a hand that wasn't gentle. A second later he was shaking his head, apologizing, saying his head was off somewhere today, let's go inside.  
  
Every day that went by was an affirmation of their love. But somewhere in the back of her mind, Marah knew they were not at peace, only at a temporary lull in their stormy lives.  
  
As for Mort, he loved having Marah there, loved the way she sat across from him at the table and smiled when she asked him to pass something, loved having her sitting next to him while he worked, loved feeling her presence curled up reading while he worked. And he loved the nights. Early in the morning, when she was still asleep, he would write his new piece. He'd set aside the horror one he had been working on before; he couldn't think of anything else to write. But he was full of ideas for a new one. It was still mystery, still angst-ridden, but full of love and tenderness and regret. And maybe—just maybe—he would have a happy ending. He wasn't sure what his editor would say, or his agent, but he wasn't writing for them anymore. For the first time in many, many years, he was writing for himself.  
  
Sometimes he would look at her and not even believe she was there with him. Everything had been so sudden—it had barely been two months since she had walked past his house, surprised him by smiling back, inquired after an address. But that's what a town full of bigots will do for a romance, he figured. And he wasn't complaining.  
  
Nevertheless, living with a woman again all of a sudden wasn't easy. Too many things she said and did reminded him of the past—a past he'd buried so deep he didn't even know it was there. She didn't look remotely like Amy, or sound like her, but the way she felt, in the darkness of the night, the gentle curves of her body, the sound of her breathing...  
  
The dreams didn't go away. They weren't always the same—sometimes it would be Marah standing there, and sometimes it would be Amy, and sometimes one would turn into the other, or they would shift back and forth like fluid ghosts until he wanted to scream and take hold of them just to keep them still. He always felt he had to go to her—whoever she was. Sometimes he had to protect her, because something was coming for her, trying to hurt her... and sometimes it was him, looking to hurt her, and he'd watch with sick pleasure as she begged him to let her go. And then...  
  
He would wake up in a cold sweat and feel Marah's warmth against his chest, her body rising and falling gently, regularly as she breathed. With one hand he would trace the edge of her cheek, brushing her dark hair back from her face, asking himself.  
  
But he was afraid of the answer. 


	11. A Secret Discovered

Thanks again to the reviewers! I know I should thank you all individually but it's such a struggle just to get chapters up in decent time, so my apologies, and my sincere gratitude to each and every one of you!!  
  
One afternoon, while soft clacks issued from Mort's computer upstairs, Marah browsed aimlessly through his many shelves of books, marveling at the extensive collection. She picked up a glossy paperback copy of Everybody Drops the Dime, planning only to open it to the back jacket flap and smile at Mort's photo—but as she pulled out the book, several pieces of paper fluttered to the floor, seemingly having been wedged between the book and the back of the bookcase. Upon closer examination, she saw more papers and pulled them out. Altogether they made a fairly thick stack.  
  
She looked at the sheet on top, and her heart skipped a beat. His divorce papers.  
  
Something felt wrong about the situation, and it wasn't just that she felt she was invading his privacy. She couldn't say exactly what it was that made her want to see them. The packet was thick, not just the copy he should have kept after the papers were filed. She pushed guilt to the back of her mind and glanced quickly upstairs to make sure he was still immersed in his work. Then she began leafing through the papers.  
  
There were three copies, clearly marked: one for him, one for his ex-wife, one for the lawyers. Why should he have all three of them? When she saw the last page her heart turned over, suddenly cold. There was her signature, on the appropriate line, and above it, the space for his signature—and it was completely blank, the white staring blandly up at her.  
  
This must be a mistake. It must be an early draft of the papers, never signed because they were unfinished. Mort must have signed and filed the later draft in a perfectly normal fashion. It made sense...but why would he have kept these papers, then? Distinctly hidden, no less, not just somewhere he might have shoved them absentmindedly. She couldn't stop looking at that line, drawn in clear black, with no signature above it. She followed it with her eyes, traced over it lightly with her finger between its beginning and ending points. This is where your happiness starts and ends, something said inside of her. This is where your happiness ends.  
  
Of course not, she argued back. This is ridiculous and irrational and paranoid.  
  
He's still married. You're living with a married man.  
  
The idea struck her so hard it made her draw in her breath audibly. Then defiance came over her. I don't care, she thought forcefully. I love him. I never cared about rules anyway. His ex-wife's gone, taken off, hasn't she? What do I care what the record says? What do I care what the gossipmongers would say if they knew...  
  
You can never marry him.  
  
That brought her up short. She'd never mentioned the idea even to herself at the level of conscious thought, yet it was true, and she knew all along that it was true: she had believed that eventually, when he was ready, they would marry, maybe even have a family. And the papers she held brought all those dreams crashing down.  
  
"I can't work anymore. You want something to eat?"  
  
She whirled around. Mort stood there, soda can in hand. She hadn't even heard him come down the stairs, she'd been so absorbed in her thoughts. She felt the blood drain from her face, feeling guilty and ashamed and... afraid. She couldn't say why. She had never felt afraid of him before—that was why she had loved him so much, after her last relationship. He made her feel safe, protected but not suffocated, at peace.  
  
He saw her face and looked surprised. Then he saw the telltale papers in her hand and frowned slightly.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
She couldn't think of anything to say. She looked down at them, back up at him, back down at them.  
  
He crossed the room to her to look at them. She watched him approach with mounting panic, then jerked away when he reached out his hand to take them. He stopped dead, looking more concerned than angry.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
His look calmed her a little. Without a word she handed them to him. He leafed through, concern slowly changing to confusion, then another expression that she couldn't read. He still did not look up. The silence lengthened and became oppressive, until Marah felt she had to speak, just to make sure she still had the ability.  
  
"You could have told me, you know, if the divorce was never finalized. I would have liked to know before now."  
  
He didn't say anything. He just kept reading, turning pages back and forth mechanically. His eyes didn't look as if they were actually seeing anything.  
  
She found herself getting angry at him.  
  
"Don't you have anything to say?" she said, incredulity and desperation in her voice. She needed an explanation for this. Not even an explanation—just a way to disregard it. If he looked up at her and told her yes, he'd lied, no, he'd never gotten around to filing the papers, or whatever reason he had, it didn't matter... as long as he could tell her he still loved her. That would be enough. But he wasn't doing even that.  
  
He was standing there, his expression and bearing suddenly changed so that it didn't even seem to be the same person standing there. He was lost, somewhere in the space where his name should have been. 


	12. Shooter Returns

Sorry for the cliffie last time, here's the next installment! Also I'm out of school now (YESSSSSSS!) so I should be able to update my stories more often. Thanks for reviewing and please keep them coming, tell me how it's going!  
  
Upon seeing the papers, Mort had at first been confused, then dumbfounded as he took them into his own hands and began to examine them. Now, however, something began to stir in the back of his mind. His throat felt tight, as if his voice had suddenly changed; a filter seemed to come before his eyes so that everything was a few shades darker, and blurred around the edges. He couldn't understand. He didn't know how these papers had gotten here, yet he knew they were significant.  
  
Amy would never have left without finalizing the papers. He remembered how desperate she had been. As soon as she had filed for divorce she had asked him for his signature. He had refused, he remembered that, for a reason he could never quite understand, and she had kept asking, both of them getting angrier every time she brought it up, the constant tension driving him further and further into himself.  
  
Yet Amy was gone, and here were the papers, unsigned... and they were THE papers, the very ones she had carried around, shoving them into his face at every opportunity. He was sure of that; in the dark, hidden part of his mind, he was certain.  
  
How had they gotten here?  
  
"You know," said a voice in his ear, so clear that he jumped and looked over his shoulder. No one was there. "Think, Mister Rainey," came the voice again, a thick southern drawl, the vowels stretched out like saltwater taffy. He shuddered; he had heard that voice before. The voice in the dream. He had never heard it before while he was awake.  
  
The papers fluttered out of his hands, onto the ground. He stared at his hands; they were cold. I don't know, he said to himself. I don't.  
  
But his mind was swirling now, all the dark memories he had kept hidden being disturbed, pulled out of their slumber and surfacing in flashes for a nanosecond before they dimmed again. He didn't try to repress them this time. He had to know now—when Amy had finally left, where she had gone, why she had left these papers unsigned.

_ "You remember Secret Window?" he remembered saying, cradling a green receiver. "You know, the woman, has this garden..."  
  
"I never liked that one," Amy had said, her voice sounding artificial and metallic over the phone.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, it was kind of hostile, don't you think?"  
  
"I miss your constructive criticism, Amy, I really do..."  
_  
Secret window. That was what Amy had called the window overlooking the cornfield. Only it hadn't always been a cornfield down there—it had been her garden. Always filled with flowers, with three or four feeders for the hummingbirds. She'd loved that garden. Sometimes he'd felt she loved that garden more than she loved him...  
  
_Another phone conversation, sometime after the first one. He was irritable, annoyed.  
  
"I was asleep."  
  
"So you unplugged the phone?" Amy's voice was desperate, close to hysterical. She sounded like she had been crying.  
  
He sighed, resigning himself to a long and boring conversation. "How may I assist you, Amy?"  
  
"Mort...they burned down our house!"  
  
_ The house—he hadn't even thought about that house for years. It was a beautiful house. Amy had taken it after they separated it, and he had burned inwardly whenever he thought of Amy and Ted living in it... Yes, the house had burned down, burned to the ground, he remembered that now, burned like his dreams. Who...?  
  
The memories began coming faster.  
  
_He was speaking to Ken on the phone.  
  
"Here's what I think," Ken was saying. Mort could hear him moving around his room in the motel. "Someone hired this guy to hassle you, scare you into giving him some money. But now he's gone too far. Dead dogs, burned- down houses..."_  
  
Chico, his dog, his only companion in the cabin. 

_He pulled aside a sheet and...  
  
He held a shovel in his hands, tamping the earth down tightly over a grave.  
  
"I'll get you for this, Shooter!"  
  
_ Shooter... A man. A man who had appeared on his doorstep in a bowler hat and a smile that showed too many of his teeth.  
  
_"You stole my story."_  
  
Shooter... _In the dark outside the cabin, Mort shoved up against a tree, Shooter pressing the handle of a shovel hard across his throat. His face was much too close, his voice hostile and threatening.  
  
_Shooter... _inside the cabin, reflected in the mirror. He was standing on the stairs, perfectly composed, regarding Mort fixedly with a trace of amusement in his eye.  
  
"You're not real." Mort's breath was harsh in his throat, his voice ragged.  
  
"Oh, I'm real, Mr. Rainey. I'm real because... you made me. You gave me my name. Told me everything you wanted me to do."  
  
He had advanced slowly as he spoke until he was standing directly behind Mort. Mort turned to face him.  
  
"Now, what's the real reason I come, Mr. Rainey?"  
  
Mort spoke as if to himself. "Fix the ending."  
  
Shooter's voice was devoid of emotion. "And how do you propose we do that?"  
_  
Mort now worked his throat but no sound came out. He yelled inside his head. "No. It's over, that ending is past!"  
Shooter answered him, his voice cold. "It was. But you seem intent on writing a sequel. And I'm going to make damn sure that this ending's done right the first time."

Heh... didn't really resolve the cliffie. REVIEW please, it'll motivate me to write faster! :) Not to be pushy or anything...


	13. Back in Full

I am reactivating this story! Yayy! Thanks to anyone who's still with me after all these months, and thanks to everyone who's giving this a chance for the first time as well. You guys are fantastic! This chapter's kinda short, but for once I actually have the next one almost finished and should have it posted soon (no, really this time. ). Also, it's a little bitfreaky, but thereWILL be a feel-good ending. Please read and review!

love, lazuli-rain

Marah stared at Mort, who seemed lost in a haze of past struggles, visibly fighting to breathe. She could almost see the cloud of darkness enveloping him, slowly hiding him from view. He sounded like he was trying to speak, but not to her; he was trying to force sounds from his throat into the empty air, but something was snatching the words back in before they could find their way to her ears.

"Mort?" she cried out in alarm, her original anger and suspicion forgotten. Everything could be worked out later, but right now all she needed was for him to breathe, to speak, to focus his eyes instead of staring into an endless darkness only he could see…

She went to him and tried to put her arms around him, steady his shaking. She reached for the papers, meaning to put them down on the bookcase so she could lead him to sit down, but he recoiled from her touch and hung onto the papers like a dying sailor holding onto a piece of driftwood. He yanked them away so quickly that they cut her fingers as he pulled away; she stared for a moment at the parallel, shallow gashes with blood starting to seep out from under the translucent layers of skin.

"I'll—I'll call the hosp…" she began, making for the phone, but he beat her to it with astonishing swiftness for someone who still couldn't make his eyes focus on anything in the room. Her hand was already on the receiver, but he grabbed her by the wrist and pried it off. She was too surprised to offer much resistance. Then he took the entire phone and yanked it brutally, phone cord and all, out of the wall. He threw it to the floor. Then he began advancing toward her. Finally he appeared to be seeing her, really looking at her, but it wasn't Mort's kind eyes fixed on hers. These eyes were dark, full of pain and rage and unspeakable violence.

She felt fear begin to twist in her stomach. She had been in this situation too many times before.

"Mort." She tried to stay calm, knowing that if she made sudden movements he might attack. Still, her voice trembled, and her eyes were wide and fearful. "What's wrong?"

He still didn't respond.

"Mort, it's me. What are you doing?" She began backing away slowly as he kept coming toward her, slow and ruthless, like a predator sure of prey. Her hands balled int fists, her nails digging deep red crescents into her palms. "You're scaring me. Please, Mort!"

He spoke one word, slowly, a soft and sinister grin playing on his lips. "Amy."

"No! Marah!" she said, frantically. "Me, Marah!" He was insane, after all. How could she have done this to herself? How could she have loved him? How could she—she realized with a shock—still love him, even now?

"Marah…" he repeated, slowly, as if he'd never spoken the name before, as if he hadn't whispered it countless times at night as they made love. He stopped his advance, and for a moment she thought he would remember… but then the eerie, cracked smile widened. "Now, that's purdy." He spoke with a strange Southern drawl, his voice hushed and menacing. He continued advancing.

"Mort." She felt tears start. Her back hit the wall; she had nowhere left to run.

"I'm not Mort."

"Yes, you are!" With a last, blind hope, she forced herself to touch him, to speak to him like she always did, as if he hadn't become a crazed monster before her eyes. She cradled his face in her hands and looked up at him. "You're Mort, and I'm Marah! Stop talking like that. Stop smiling like that! Stop it!"

He scoffed and shook his head witheringly. "Not gonna fall for that one, miss."

Then, suddenly, he took hold of her arms and threw her bodily to the floor. She landed on her hands and knees, breathing hard. All the strength in his arms that had protected her, held her through the long nights—she dreaded that strength now, imagined feeling the full force of them if he hit her.

He stood over her, the smile gone, replaced by an anger just as terrible. "You're Amy, come back from my past to haunt me. Well, dear wife… I ain't changed none."


	14. Inside These Arms

Hey guys! New chapter already!! (I'm very proud of myself here.) It still doesn't resolve much, but please R&R, but the next chapter will start to, I swear. Thanx!

* * *

He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to her feet. She winced in pain and followed him. It hurt too much to struggle. 

He led her out the back door, into his cornfield, into the corner where it abutted the house. He picked up a shovel as he passed it, sticking out of the ground.

Her heart caught in her throat. He wasn't like the others, he didn't want power, he didn't want her to submit. He wanted blood. He wanted revenge for whatever he had suffered in the past. He had killed his wife. He would kill her.

She didn't want to die. Not like this, not like this, not like this… her mind screamed. He threw her down again, onto the ground. She felt the hard-packed dirt, little blades of grass pushing up here and there between her fingers, making a hard and weary existence. Living. Beautiful life.

"Mort—" she looked up suddenly. "I love you." And it wasn't a lie, it wasn't a desperate ploy to make him stop. It was truth, and she simply had to let him know it before she was dead. She said it again, fiercely. "I love you."

He gave a sharp, bitter laugh. He knelt and spoke into her face, his dark eyes boring into his. She shuddered at their darkness but met his gaze steadily. "Shoulda thought of that, huh? 'Fore you fucked him?"

She didn't try to deny it; he wouldn't have listened. She bit back tears and closed her eyes hopelessly. She didn't want to die with this unknown, dark presence dominating her entire world, suffocating her with his hate. Maybe if she couldn't see him, she could sense the world beyond him.

"Look at me!" he commanded, grabbing the front of her shirt and hauling her up to his face. Her eyes flew open and looked fearfully into his, only inches away from her own. His calm veneer was gone now; his face was contorted with rage, and he spoke in shallow, gasping breaths. He kept one hand on her chest, holding her down; with the other he reached behind him for the shovel.

She whispered, her voice trembling from tears, still meeting his gaze. "_One of us will die inside these arms."_

A tremor seemed to run through him. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What?"

* * *

It was a song that she had loved, that she had sang for him one night. It was a song about two lovers, promising each other that they would die still loving each other, so that their separation would be as sweet as their life. 

After she had finished, he had looked at her a long time without speaking, and she had let the silence stretch on, the words of the song hanging in the air like stars in the night. Then he had reached out and touched her face, gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

"They're not afraid," he whispered.

She picked up his train of thought easily. "Not even of death. Their love is that strong."

"Marah?"

"Mmm?"

"I love you." He had said the words before, but not with this same intensity. There were echoes of eternity in his words.

"I love you too," she whispered back. They smiled at each other.

He pulled her to him and cradled her in his arms. "Teach me the song," he murmured.

"Okay."

So she had taught him the song, line by line, and felt a warm glow of joy begin within her. And the song became a promise between them, their promise of love and truth and sweetness forever. Almost every night, he whispered a line into her ear. And in that moment, she felt safe and warm, and she wasn't afraid of anything.

* * *

"What'd you say?" he asked again, abandoning the shovel and grabbing her with both hands again. There was a note of panic in his voice. 

"You promised me that. Don't you remember?" Her voice cracked, so that she could barely force out the words.

His hold on her tightened, his face terrible and unreadable, but he did not move. There was a nagging feeling inside his head, shielded behind layers on layers of thick muffling dust, that something was terribly wrong. He'd felt a flash of compassion for the helpless girl. A desire to save her. But that made no sense—he was the one killing her, and he wanted to be killing her, because she was a traitor and a liar and had stolen his love when it was all he had ever had or wanted or needed. She had stolen it and ripped it apart and then thrown it away like trash. He wanted to make her suffer. Simple. But now he felt…

Whatever it was, if it were ever allowed to surface, it had the power to destroy his world, to unmake him as a human being. It terrified him, and he felt a desperate urge to repress it. _Kill her quickly. Don't listen to her lies. _Abruptly, he cast her away from him, and because he'd been yanking her up she hit the ground with some force. He raised his hand to strike her.

She began speaking the words, almost chanting them to herself, but her trembling and urgent voice gained melody as she went. The melody was as sweet and soft as a lover's whisper.

_Eyes wide open…_

_Naked as we came…_

_One will spread our_

_Ashes round the yard… _

At the last words she broke his gaze, and her eyes filled with tears, remembering the sweet parting they had promised each other.

"I want to die in your arms, Mort," she whispered. "Not by your hands." And she closed her eyes, letting the tears run silently past her eyelashes and down her cheeks.


	15. Rebirth

Hey guys! One more chapter to celebrate spring break… I think there'll be one or two more after this one, and then I'll have completed my first real story on Fanfiction (well, except one-shots). PLZ read and review!

Mort's hand was still frozen in the air, raised to hit her, but his muscles seemed to have been paralyzed, tensed so tightly that they shook, the sinews aching with friction. The uneasy, twisting feeling was becoming stronger. It was fighting him, fighting its way out from the shrouds of darkness that had enveloped it when he first saw the divorce papers, when he felt the blood-lust rise in his throat and felt, with unshakeable conviction, that this girl had to be disposed of.

A different memory flashed through his mind. He heard the song she had sung, only it was a different verse, and a man was singing it. A low, soft voice that carried only love.

_He approached a girl from behind, put his hands on her waist and whispered "Hey."_

_She jumped, surprised, then laughed easily. She turned to him, still contained in the circle of his arms, and locked her arms around his neck._

"_One of us will die inside these arms…" he murmured into her hair._

"_I hope it's me," he whispered._

_She leaned her head back to look him in the eyes. "Why?"_

"_So I never have to live without you."_

_Their lips met gently at first, and then the kiss grew more passionate. He ran his hands along her thin upper arms, helping her ease out of a light fall jacket, never breaking contact for a moment. He imagined their edges blurring into each other._

The feeling was growing, as he watched the girl, a roaring in his head, a tightness in his chest. He felt like he was dying. Perhaps he was already dead. It was surfacing, all the fear and pain and anguish that he had buried for so long. It felt like…

Someone shouting. He thought he heard someone in the distance, but as he looked at the girl, the voice grew louder, closer. Her eyes had still been closed, her body curled away from him as she futilely tried to protect herself from his blow. Slowly, when his hand didn't descend, she opened her eyes again and looked at him. She looked partly terrified, and partly concerned when she saw his motionless form.

Their eyes met. A voice erupted in his mind.

"LEAVE MARAH ALONE. YOU FUCKING BASTARD, LEAVE HER! SHE'S NOT PART OF THIS. YOU LAY ONE HAND ON HER AND I SWEAR, I'LL…"

The sudden force of the silent voice caused him to stumble backward, gasping for air. What—?

Then suddenly, his consciousness flipped. He was no longer the steady, softspoken killer John Shooter… he was the one screaming at the Southern intruder inside his head. He was Mort Rainey. Mort. And he suddenly was in control of his body, of his mind, of his voice.

He screamed.

He screamed and fell to his knees, and dug his fingers into the hard ground as hard as he could, trying to find a place where he could root himself. The world was whirling around him, making him dizzy. He felt like he had been reborn. He had lost his own mind to a killer, and found himself again.

Marah could only look on, horrified, for the first few seconds. She had no idea what was happening, but Mort gave no sign of stopping it, neither reverting to his killer mode, nor calming down. He started coughing, awful dry hacking coughs that racked his whole body.

The back door was still open.

She rose warily to her feet. The man she had loved was on the ground, obviously in pain, possibly in mortal danger… perhaps she should… Then he noticed the motion, and turned to look at her. Her survival instinct overwhelmed her. Strangling a cry, she shot toward the back door. Without stopping, she tore through the house, slipping on the rug, banging into things, exploding out of the front door and taking off down the front walk. She didn't even check to see if he was following her until a quarter mile up the road.

Finally, she stopped and looked back. No one seemed to be coming after her. The road was empty, and she couldn't hear any cars being started. She set out again, walking this time.

She had nowhere to go, no way to get food or shelter, and everything she owned in the world was back at Mort's house. But she was alive.

And the tears started to come.


	16. The Struggle

Hey guys! Okay, so, I've FINALLY re-taken up writing this thing, and I have now finished the ENTIRE story.) SoI'll be posting it one or two chapters a day until it's done (there are 21 chapters total). And to those of you reading this, thank you sooo much for sticking with me!

------

Everything was back there. And not just her money, her clothes, her phone book with her only ties to the outside world, the photograph of her parents that she'd kept since she was sixteen years old. Even more than that—her heart was there.

_I'll never get it back,_ she thought, still walking because it gave her something to do. _I'll never, ever love again. _

_He wanted to kill me. He looked right into my eyes …_

_His hand was raised to hit me, I was afraid… I swore I would never be afraid like that again…_

And then, unexpectedly, she thought: _I hope he's alright…_

She stopped walking. She was nearly at the heart of town now. She was starving, and thirsty, and dirty and tired. She noticed that no one in the town was looking her in the face again. So much for time healing… those cuts from months ago seemed still fresh in everyone's memories.

_I have to get out of here,_ she thought frantically. _I can't stay._

_I have absolutely no money._

Slowly, she turned around and stared back down the road toward where she'd come. She would go back. Mort had shown her where the spare key was. She would go back to his house at night, after he was asleep, let herself in, and take her things. Then she could be gone forever.

She felt sick with fear at the thought of going back in that house. She thought about asking the police, but some insane part of her mind still didn't want Mort put in jail. She only wanted to be gone. He could settle back into the life he had had before she came—secluded, sinister, but harmless—and live that way forever. She swallowed hard and forced herself to take the first step. The second was a little bit easier, although not much. It would be uphill all the way.

-----

"GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!"

The Southern voice was infuriating and calm. "You need me, Mister Rainey."

"No!"

" You done forgot that right now, but you'll remember."

"I don't need you. I need her! Get out!"

"You just sit back comfortable like last time—"

"Never—"

"—and let me take care of things. That's why you made me."

"I'll kill you!"

Then the voice laughed, a mirthless and chillingly evil. "You can't get at me, Mister Rainey. I'm in your head."

Mort whirled around, trying to prove him wrong. He was so sure he'd see someone in front of him, a Southern gentleman with dead-looking eyes and sallow skin. Someone he could fight, could kill. Last time there had been some one. But there was no one. He whirled around again. Still, he was alone. Alone. He caught his blurry reflection in the shovel lying on the ground. Just him.

He bent and picked up the shovel. "I'll kill you," he said more quietly to the reflection.

"Now, don't you go doing a fool thing like that."

But Mort hardly heard him. He was in control now. He could feel his own body again, his exhausted muscles, his aching throat, the warm tears streaming down his face. He wouldn't touch Marah. Never. The shovel was heavy and sharp and friendly. He swung.

The blade stopped an inch from his throat. Shooter's voice was ragged now, angry and forceful. "I told you… not… to be doing a fool thing like that."

"Damn it, you piece of shit, die!"

He swung the shovel again, but this time it was knocked out of his hands. Somehow he was on the ground, his hands and feet seemingly anchored to the ground. With a mighty effort he got his hands around his neck, tried to squeeze, but he could only apply the force of a small child.

"I'm stronger'n you, Rainey."

Mort didn't respond.

"You got no chance against me."

His hands were tiring. The muscles were easing, relaxing of their own accord.

"Don't be stupid. She never even loved you."

And that was Shooter's mistake. Because with those words Mort remembered. The nights of passion and the days of light and laughter and the whispered words and the kisses, stolen and returned and given freely, over and over. Then he remembered things he couldn't remember seeing—Marah terrified, on the ground, trying to scramble away from an unimaginable horror. Her face contorted with pain because cruel hands were holding her. Then tears running down her face, chanting words in a voice that was hopeless and sorrowful and broken, so very broken.

A surge of rage hit him, drowning out everything else. He wanted to die. He didn't want to kill Shooter, he just wanted to die. And the hands became strong, and Shooter's angry objections became a whisper, and the world was going dark, and he was happy because Marah was safe.

-----

He woke. His head was throbbing as if it had been split in two. Breathing was torture for his throat. It felt like his lungs had collapsed when he drew in air. His muscles ached. There was blood in his mouth.

It took him a moment to remember. Shooter. Shooter was gone. This time he wouldn't come back. Last time he'd been lurking in the dark memories. This time the memories were bright, vivid, searingly painful. There was nowhere for him to hide this time.

And Marah. Marah was gone, too.

He was glad. He told this to himself over and over again as he staggered to his feet, limped into the house, and collapsed on the couch. She's safe. I'm glad. I'm glad. I'm glad.

There was a paperweight on the table by the couch. It was made of glass, smooth and cool. He put it on his throat because he was too exhausted to get ice. He lay there telling himself he was glad, while the light from the windows dimmed, leaving him in the dark. After about half an hour, he pulled together all of his strength, stretched out his arm, and switched on the table lamp.

She's gone, and I'm glad. I'm glad.

I am.


	17. Face to Face Again

In truth, night found Marah sitting only a few hundred feet from Mort's front yard, by the side of the road, warily watching his front door for signs of him. The downstairs light was still on. God, wasn't he going to sleep? It had to be close to 3am by now. They'd had no trouble sleeping when they were together… in fact, there was a time when they went to bed progressively earlier every night, so that eventually they were settling into another night in each others' arms while the last shades of the sunset were still touching the sky.

Maybe he was already asleep. Maybe he wasn't even there. She couldn't swear she'd seen the downstairs light come on at all—it might have been on continuously since this morning, for all she knew.

Maybe she should…

But she couldn't fathom of going into that house while he was awake. She could never look into his eyes again. Seeing the eyes that she'd loved so much look upon her with nothing but insane hatred… it had been more than she could bear. It would tear at her insides forever.

She sat there, paralyzed. Maybe he was sleeping with the lights on. Maybe he was still lying in the yard.

Maybe he was dead.

The thought struck her like a thousand volts going through her body. If he was, no one would know. No one would find out for days. Weeks. She had to find out.

She breathed in deep. Shook her feet a little. Dug her fingernails deep into her palms. She wasn't paralyzed; she could move. She would just go check around the back, to see if he was still lying there. If he was, she'd call the police. If not, she'd either return to her post and wait some more, or just possibly, muster up the courage to peek in a window. Take one step at a time. Just go check the back.

She stood up, and started moving her feet.

The cornstalks stood tall and stiff like ghost soldiers in the moonlight. It would have frightened her, had she not been convinced that what she'd seen in broad daylight earlier that day was worse than anything she could see again.

There was no sound except a very slight breeze. Very cautiously, Marah picked her way through it to the backyard and peered into the space where she'd seen him last. There were signs of a great struggle, but he was no longer there.

Sudden panic gripped her. If he wasn't there, he could be anywhere. He could be behind her right then. She whirled around. Nothing but corn. She whirled around again, and still saw nothing. Then she began running blindly, back the way she'd come, convinced that he was on her heels until she'd gotten out of the field and could see clearly in every direction. In the front yard again, she dropped to her knees, breathing hard.

Mort's half-alert ears picked up a rustling on the side of the house.

"What—"

He tried to raise himself onto an elbow, but dropped back down again. Most likely it was the police. That would make sense. Marah was a smart girl, she would have called them after she got away. He leaned his head back. Any minute now, the sirens and lights would start, and the voice on the loudspeaker, "We've got the place surrounded. Come out with your hands over your head…" He tried to remember the scenes on television, and what was supposed to happen next. The thing was, on TV the person always attempted some stupid form of escape. And he wasn't going to. He was just going to lie there and let them take him.

But the rustling kept up, and became distinct footsteps. Not very stealthy police… but were they police? He could only make out one set of feet, and they were all-out running. Why would they be running?

With an almighty effort, he sat up, then heaved himself onto his feet. He felt unsteady for a moment as the blood rushed from his head, and the world was tinged teal and orange. Then it passed. The outside was a dark smudge through the window. He listened, but heard nothing.

Marah had caught her breath, and was eyeing the window. The curtains were drawn, and she could look in if she got a little closer. She had come this far. And she needed money so she could go find some convenient shit hotel in which to cry her eyes, heart, and soul out.

She got to her feet and took a step closer to the window. The single lamp in the room didn't illuminate much, but it looked like the couch was empty. Stepping over a large ornamental rock, she closed the distance to the window pane and peered through it. She could see no one, and no sign that anyone had been in since the morning.

And then, suddenly Mort was before her, inches from her face.


	18. Whisper and Swirl

She cried out and stumbled backward, tripping over the rock and hitting the ground hard. Her head cracked against a stone and her vision swam. She tried to get up, but she couldn't stay upright. Her heart was pounding in her ears and through her fingertips, pounding out a message: _Stupid, stupid, stupid. You're going to die. And you deserve it. _And then, riding on an even higher wave of panic, _I don't want to die._

She struggled and got to her feet, but her ankle wouldn't hold. It was twisted, or broken. It buckled beneath her and made her scream in agony. She went down again, landing on hands and knees, panting. She wanted to move but she wasn't even sure which direction to go.

"Marah?"

The voice was muffled, heard through double-paned glass. Mort's voice. But in her mental haze, she couldn't tell what direction the voice was coming from, what direction she should flee in. The voice seemed to surround her, reverberating in the air, repeating itself over and over. She moaned, making another effort to stand, but ended up flat on her stomach and in more pain than ever.

"Marah? Marah!"

It wasn't just her imagination; the voice _was_ repeating itself. It was growing louder, too, escalating in intensity, changing from a question to an exclamation. Suddenly a door slammed, and there he was, framed in dim porch lights, running toward her. He was still wearing the same clothes as that morning.

"No!" she cried. But she knew she couldn't get up. She shuffled back a few yards, but after that she could only hug her knees, her shins and her slim curved back her body's only protection. "No, don't!"

She didn't even know what she meant to say—_don't what?_ But she said it again. "Don't." And then she whispered. "Please. Please don't."

He had stopped dead on the lawn, less than a body length away from her, but he wasn't approaching any more.

"Marah," he murmured, and his voice was soft, sane, a voice that came from a heart full of longing and brokenness. She remembered the voice, now that her mind was no longer swimming and she could think through the flaring pain in her ankle. It was the voice he'd spoken in sometimes when she'd first come, when intimacy and love still reminded him of loss and betrayal, when he needed her, clung to her, buried his hands in her hair and breathed her in. She had thought, vainly thought, that she'd healed him—but who could have known he'd had such a monster within him all this time?

That voice was seductive. It was a liar. It had lied then, and it was lying again now. The thought filled her with terror. His eyes were locked on her, filled with shimmering grief in the moonlight. She couldn't look at him without shuddering, yet she couldn't look away. They stayed there, motionless except for her trembling.

"Let me," he said, so soft she could barely hear him, "let me… call you a doctor."

She barely understood the words. It was as if she was under a spell; she could do nothing, say nothing, only keep looking at him with wild and terrified eyes. He slowly turned back toward the house, and reached the door in a few steps. With a long last look at her, he disappeared inside.

As soon as he was out of sight, she came to life again. Not that it made much of a difference in her mobility; she still couldn't get to her feet, much less walk. But she tried to crawl, scraping her bare hands and knees bloody on the sharp little rocks of his gravel driveway. Her ankle was in agony, her head was throbbing where she'd hit it and a trickle of blood was making its way down her temple and cheek. Progress was painfully slow, and she had only made about ten yards before she heard the door squeak open again behind her. She turned around in a flash, and saw Mort standing indecisively in the doorway; then suddenly the world was swirling at the edges, working its way into a vortex, and everything went black.


	19. Left With Questions

Only 2 more chapters left after this one! btw, thanks soo much Dawnie-7 for sticking w/ me and readingthiswhole thing... your reviews are always so nice and encouraging ). and thanks Avril-Armstrong for your review too, i was so excited to see that someone new was actually reading this! Everyone else, plz keep reading and reviewing, and hope you like the rest of the story.  
lazuli-rain

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Mort saw her crumple to the ground, as though she had been shot by a silent gun. Without thinking he ran to her, words like _concussion_ and _coma_ reverberating in his mind disconnectedly. He'd seen her hit the ground, seen the blood on her face. Oh God Marah, please don't... Oh God, please…

He ran to her limp body, immediately knelt, and moved her to a comfortably lying position. She was breathing and had a pulse, but it was slow and irregular. His own heart started racing. Ice? Heat? Blanket? Should he move her?

"Marah," he whispered to her. "Forgive…"

Then he stopped. Of course he had no right to ask her that. She could never forgive him, just as he could never forgive himself. That was right, and inevitable. Then what could he say to her?

"Don't forgive me, Marah. I understand, I do. I'm so sorry. I would die a million times if that would help you to erase my memory. I wish I could. But know…" and he stroked the dark hair back from her forehead, where it was becoming matted in blood, "…Know that I love you. You chased the dark away, you chased _him_ away. You came and you dug up all the secrets, all the pain and the madness and the fear, but you dug up whatever flicker of goodness I used to have in me too. Remembering you, remembering us, that's what gave me the strength to fight, to win. You saved me.

"Marah, please, please wake up…"

But Marah stayed unconscious, her breathing steady and even now, her face relaxed and smooth, as if she were only sleeping.

_I lie smiling like our sleeping children… one of us will…_

"NO," said Mort suddenly, pushing the song line out of his head. "Marah," he shook her less gently. "Marah!"

Suddenly a distant siren sounded, rapidly drawing closer until in a matter of moments the ambulance was turning into his driveway, its bright headlights momentarily blinding him. The door opened and two EMTs jumped out, a stretcher between them; behind them came four armed police guards. They drew their weapons and trained them on Mort.

"Step away from the victim. Hands in the air." Dave Noose's voice was brusque and dry. Mort complied, feeling only vague surprise. It figures that cops would accompany any 911 call to his house. He stood up, his palms open. They were smeared with blood from her cut, he realized.

Oh well, he thought. So what if I'm falsely convicted and sent to jail for this. Just because they came at the wrong time, it doesn't change the fact that I probably do belong in federal prison… He felt strangely calm and detached. He just hoped Marah would be alright.

The paramedics had checked her vitals by this point, and were lifting her onto the stretcher. One of them grabbed her under the legs.

"I think she has a broken ankle too—" he began to say, but the four policemen instantly tensed and moved closer, still pointing their guns at him. He fell silent. The paramedic, not having comprehended, took hold of Marah's ankle firmly. She moaned, her eyes opening but not focusing on anything, her face contorted with pain.

Mort tried to go to her, but two of the policemen took hold of his arms while a third stayed in front of him, his gun still drawn. Dave Noose, as though waiting for this moment, unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt and strode around behind the struggling Mort, going through his spiel as he put them on.

"Morton Rainey, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Marah Carraway. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right…" Mort wasn't saying anything, but he was still straining against the two officers holding him, trying to get a glimpse of how Marah was doing. She didn't seem to know where she was yet, but her eyes were wide open and she was making sounds.

"Miss Carraway," someone was saying to her. "You've been hit in the head. You're alright, you need to relax. We're taking you to the hospital."

She was becoming alert. "Where… where am I?"

"You're…" the paramedic seemed to hesitate.

Marah sat up, holding her head. The two paramedics tried to get her to lie back down, saying something about blood pressure and fainting, but she looked past them as if they were trees. "Mort?"

Dave Noose answered before Mort could say anything. "You're safe, miss. This man attacked you with a rock. We have him, we're taking him in."

She was squinting at the five of them in the darkness, Mort framed by the four guards. Mort couldn't read her expression, nor could she see his. There was a long moment of silence. Then, her voice very clear although she sounded weak and tired, she said, "What are you doing? Let him go."

Noose's eyes widened. He walked around to stand before her. "Miss, you're making a mistake. He tried to kill you!"

"What? I fell, and I hit my head. Mort called the ambulance for me."

"You… you sure?" Noose seemed bewildered. If this were true, why had the man seemed so ready when the police arrived, so eager to get arrested? He looked back at Mort, standing there with his hands cuffed behind his back and his expression unreadable. "Miss Carraway, this man is a dangerous criminal. If you're trying to protect him…"

"I'm telling you the truth," she said, her voice growing stronger. "Ask him. Ask him what happened."

Noose looked uncertainly between the two of them, the young woman whose skin was at the moment so pale it looked translucent, the man with dark shadows on his face and darker mysteries in his eyes. He walked over slowly to stand before Mort.

"She telling the truth?" he asked, staring him in the eyes.

Mort looked at him without a flicker of emotion. After a long time, he said, "She twisted her ankle, too. When she fell. And yeah, she's telling the truth, Noose."

There was no choice, then, but to un-cuff the man, wish him a good night, get back in the ambulance, and take the woman to the hospital. So, very reluctantly, that is what Noose did.


	20. Hope Springs

Marah awoke in Tashmore Lake Hospital the next morning. It was already close to noon, and a plastic tray on the bedside table held an unappetizingly sterile assortment of lunch foods. Groggily, she rubbed her head, which was still aching. Her ankle was neatly bandaged and seemed to have gone numb, since she wasn't feeling any pain. She reached for the call button by the side of her bed, and a moment after pressing it, a nurse appeared in the doorway. She was very plump and very pale, with light green eyes and a tired but cheerful manner.

"Morning, Miss Carraway! Can I get you something?"

"What time is it?"

"11:48," the woman replied, consulting a digital watch on her wrist.

"When can I go home?"

"Well, I think you're set to be released in a few hours. In the meantime, do you feel like some lunch?"

Marah shook her head slowly. Then she managed a smile, for courtesy's sake. "Thank you."

The woman nodded and left.

Marah laid her head back on the pillow. If only it would stop throbbing, she might be able to think clearly. Last night… outside Mort's house. Because… she shuddered. Because of yesterday. Because the man she loved was insane. She closed her eyes. Everything she owned was still there, after all that… Once she got out of here, she'd have to…

She was so tired…

She felt sleep taking her again, comfortable and heavy. It was a sleep with no bad dreams on the other side, somehow she knew that. She felt like she was sinking. Then she felt a cool, light pressure on her forehead. And then, although it was impossible, she heard words.

_Don't forgive me, Marah. I understand, I do. I'm so sorry. I would die a million times if that would help you to erase my memory. I wish I could. But know that I love you. You chased the dark away. You came and you dug up all the secrets, all the pain and the madness and the fear, but you dug up whatever flicker of goodness I used to have in me too. Remembering you, remembering us, that's what gave me the strength to fight him, to win. You saved me. Marah…_

It was Mort's voice, unmistakable, and it was the way she had heard it first, the way he had spoken in those days when she was falling in love with him. No… she realized, as the words echoed and repeated in her head. His voice was older, sadder, more tired. And somehow his voice seemed more pure this way, more compassionate, more tragic.

Her eyes flew open. She remembered hearing those words, not just in the dream, but in real life. The memory was thick and dark and tinged with unconsciousness, but it was real, she was positive of that. She realized her heart was beating quickly, that something light and bubbly seemed to be filling her stomach, her chest. She knew what the feeling was instantly, one she had thought she would never feel again. Hope.


	21. Finale

LAST chapter. (Since I didn't get to post a chapter yesterday, and since the last chapter was pretty short and actionless anyway, I decided to post both of these at once.) Once again, thanks sooo much to all of you readers for your support and encouragement! Hope you like it!  
lazuli-rain

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Mort sat in front of his computer, an empty Word document in front of him. He watched the little cursor stick blink on, off. On, off. He didn't know why he was even sitting here; he had absolutely no intention of being productive, today or ever again. She was gone. He was free, sane, finally, but it didn't matter, it just meant he could very sanely count off the days until he died in this house. On, off. On…

It was growing dark outside, he noticed. The computer screen, with its backlit glow, seemed brighter than before. He rubbed his eyes, watching glowing green and orange cursors blink in patterns behind his eyelids. Maybe he should eat. Was he hungry? Not really, but he might as well eat. He hadn't eaten since…

There was a knock at the door. Three raps, brisk but soft. He froze. Only one person knocked exactly that way. And that was the one person he could be sure would never, ever set foot in this house again.

He got up cautiously, as if he was approaching a deer or a rabbit, as though sudden movements would scare the person at the door away. He eased himself down the stairs one at a time. When he had descended far enough, he could see a yellow cab waiting across the street. The car was still running, its driver obviously expecting the passenger to get back inside. He reached the ground floor and stood uncertainly before the door, feeling the floor press up on him through the soles of his shoes. Although almost a full minute had passed since the raps on the door, no further knocks came. The knocker was either standing silently and waiting, or had given up and gone away.

He stood, stared at the doorknob, then at his hand, as if hoping they would move of their own accord. But they both stayed motionless. No one was there to open the door but him.

So he took a breath, put out his hand, twisted, pulled. And in the sliver between the door and the wall, he saw silky black hair. He pulled more. Now there were big, tired-looking brown eyes, creamy skin that looked a little bruised, and a thin, careful smile. Marah. She was there, all of her, every perfect and delicate inch.

"Hi," he said, since that was all he could think of.

"Hi, Mort," she said softly.

He thought of inviting her in, since that was what etiquette said you were supposed to do for someone standing on your doorstep, whether or not you had driven her out of the house in a violent, schizophrenic rage the day before. But he glanced at the taxi, unsure.

She saw where he was looking. Then she looked at him. Without warning she put a hand on his face, letting her fingertips trail down his cheek and along the line of his jaw. Their eyes met and held. She seemed to be searching for something.

"It's only you, isn't it," she said, her voice only a murmur.

Something in his heart stirred, very faint. If his wildest dream came true, if she could understand… he quickly suppressed the thought. It was impossible. "Just me," he answered, barely moving his lips. And then, "I've done terrible things."

"I know."

"I've—"

"You've been through a fight."

"Yes," he said. "But I won."

"For good?" she asked, her eyes looking into his even more intensely.

"Forever." He paused, suppressing the hope as long as he could. Then it burst out of him. "Because of you."

And like a miracle, she nodded. "I remember. What you told me, last night."

Finally he dared to reach up and cover her hand on his cheek with his own, feeling her skin like corn silk, like flower petals… like the best thing of all, just warm, living, breathing skin. "And do you remember this?" He stepped forward very slowly, very gently, just enough to kiss her forehead as lightly as a breeze.

Then he stepped back, looking at her, questioning. His face was almost pleading, but it was not desperate—his look was calm, as though he was expecting tragedy but had long since learned never to expect better. Without a word, she took his hand, squeezed it, and turned away. She walked back to the cab. He watched her, wanting to die.

But she walked not to the passenger side door, but to the driver's rolled-down window. The driver listened, nodded. "Eleven-fifty," he said in a bored voice.

Mort began walking slowly down his front steps.

Marah reached into her wallet and pulled out a single bill. "Keep the change," she said, "I'm in a good mood."

Mort's pace quickened.

The driver tipped his hat appreciatively and reached down , shifted gears. He began backing out of the driveway. Marah turned around, her cheeks glowing, her eyes wet and shining, her smile radiant. Mort was running now, and she broke into a run as well. They met halfway down the driveway, with arms thrown around each other, laughter and tears.

"God, forgive me," Mort said, his voice strangled with emotion. "Forgive me, Marah."

Her answer was to reach up and kiss him, long and full while he cradled her in his arms. He reveled in these feelings and touches and senses that he thought he'd lost forever. And he remembered words from long ago, words from the past that had been dug up, burned, and given new meaning: "_All that really matters is the ending. And this one… this one's perfect."_

_THE END_


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